Lucy and The Lieutenant. Helen Lacey
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way around it was to stay out of her way. To avoid her. To ignore her. To keep himself separate, as he had for the past eight months, and not get drawn into the land of the living where he would be forced to take part. Instead he’d stay on the sidelines, pretending everything was fine. Pretending he was fine. So his mom and brother didn’t work out that he was now a shadow of the man he’d once been.
“So, I’m right. It is just me?” she asked, stepping a little closer. “Why? Are you worried that I might work out that underneath all your brooding indifference there’s actually a decent sort of man?”
“Not at all,” he replied quietly. “Dr. Monero, the truth is I don’t think about you from one moment to the next.”
It was a mean thing to say. He knew. She knew it. And he hated the way the words tasted in his mouth. He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t good at it. He felt clumsy even saying the words. But he had to try to keep her at a distance.
“I see.” Her eyes shadowed over for a second. She looked...hurt. Wounded. And the notion cut through him like a knife. He didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t want to have any feelings when it came to Lucy Monero. “Okay. Fine. You’ve made yourself perfectly clear. Now, I think I’ll find my own way home.”
She was past him and by the door in seconds. As she rattled the doorknob, Brant took a few strides and reached her, placing a hand on either side of the jamb. She turned and gasped, looking up, so close he could feel her breath on his chin.
“Lucy...”
The sound of her name on his lips reverberated through him, sending his heart hammering and his blood surging through his veins. She was trapped, but didn’t move, didn’t do anything but hold his gaze steady. And this, he thought as he stared down into her face, was exactly why he needed to keep his distance. There was heat between them...heat generated by a sizzling attraction that had the power to knock him off his feet.
“Don’t...please...” she said shakily, her bottom lip trembling fractionally.
Brant stepped back and dropped his arms instantly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
She nodded. “I know that. I didn’t mean I thought you would. It’s just that...being around you...it’s confusing.”
She was right about that!
“It’s like you ignore me as though I don’t exist,” she went on to say. “But sometimes you look at me as if...as if...”
“As if what?” he shot back.
“As if you do...like me.”
“Of course I do,” he admitted raggedly, taking a breath, hoping she couldn’t see how messed up he was. “But I’m not in the market for anything serious. Not with you.”
There...it was out in the open. Now she could move on and stop looking at him as though he could give her all she wanted. Because he couldn’t. He didn’t have it in him. Not now. He’d been through too much. Seen too much. He wasn’t good company. He wasn’t boyfriend or husband material. He was better off alone.
“Why not?” she asked.
Nothing...
Brant sighed heavily. “I’d prefer not to get into it.”
“Oh, no,” she said and crossed her arms, pushing her chest up, which instantly grabbed his attention.
God, her curves were mesmerizing. He looked to the floor for a moment to regather his good sense and hoped she’d stop talking. But no such luck.
“You don’t get to make a bold statement like that and then think you’re off the hook. What’s wrong with me?” Her brows rose again. “I’m honest, intelligent, loyal and respectable, and have good manners. I even have all my own teeth.”
Brant laughed loudly. God, it felt good to laugh. There was something so earnest about Lucy it was impossible to remain unaffected by her. During the past few weeks he’d often heard her soft laughter through the corridors of the veterans home and wondered how it would feel to be on the receiving end of such a sweet, sincere sound. And he wanted to hear it again.
“Well, I guess if I was buying a pony, all bases would be covered.”
Her chuckle started out soft and then morphed into a full-on, loud guffaw. By the time she was done there were tears on her cheeks. She wiped them away and thrust out her chin.
“Wow...you do have a sense of humor.” Her eyes shimmered. “Your cousin was right, you’re not always a complete killjoy.”
“No,” he said easily. “Not always.”
“So, this being a jerk thing...that’s something you save especially for me?”
Brant’s mouth twitched. “I have to get my keys,” he said, ignoring the question. “Wait here.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Aren’t you going to invite me upstairs?”
To his apartment? His bedroom? “Not a chance,” he said and strode off without looking back.
* * *
Lucy wrapped her arms around herself and wandered through the tavern. Every sense she possessed was on red alert. By the door he’d been so close...close enough that she could have taken a tiny step and been pressed against him. The heat from his skin had scorched hers. The warmth of his breath had made her lips tingle with anticipation. It was desire unlike any she’d known before. And she wanted it. She wanted him. She wanted his kiss, his touch. She wanted every part of him to cover every part of her.
And she shook all over, thinking about her false bravado. She’d never spoken to man in such a blatantly flirtatious tone before. But being around Brant was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. As inexperienced as she was, flirting and verbally sparring with him seemed to have a will and a power all of its own.
“Ready?”
He was back, standing by the steps that led upstairs. Lucy swallowed hard and nodded. “Sure. Thanks.”
He shrugged loosely. “My truck’s out back.”
“No motorbike?”
He raised a brow and began to walk toward the rear of the building. “Not in this weather.”
He was right, but the idea of being behind him on his motorbike, holding on to him, being so close she’d be able to feel his heartbeat, made her pulse race.
“So you’re only reckless with yourself. That’s good to know.”
Brant stopped midstride and turned. “What?”
Lucy held out three fingers. “That’s how many times you’ve been in hospital in the past seven months. Twice off your bike because you were speeding and once when you thought it was a good idea to climb Kegg’s Mountain—alone—and without the proper gear, I might add.”
“You’re still talking too much,” he muttered and then kept walking.
Lucy followed him down the long hallway, past the kitchen and restrooms, and then through the rear door. He waited for her to walk outside and locked the door. It was still snowing lightly and she took quick steps toward the beat-up, blue Ford pickup parked outside. He opened the passenger door, ushered her inside, strode around the front of the vehicle and slid into the driver’s seat.
“What’s your address?” he asked.
Lucy gave him directions and dropped her bag into her lap.
She expected him to immediately start the truck and drive off. But he didn’t. He put the key in the ignition but placed both hands on the steering wheel. And then he spoke.
“I wasn’t speeding. My bike blew a tire the first time and the second time I swerved to avoid hitting a dog that was on the road.”
It was meant to put her in her place. To shut her up. To end the conversation.